


Belly

by wolftraptobaltimore (ogidni)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fellatio, Finger Sucking, M/M, Oral, Oral Sex, Sassy Will, Spoilers for S2, Spoilers for S3, sassy hannibal, various forms of fellatio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-01 13:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15143750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ogidni/pseuds/wolftraptobaltimore
Summary: Jack knows better than to ask for Will's help on cases. With Hannibal in prison, Jack hasn't really needed it. However, a particularly perplexing string of murders has Jack asking for Hannibal's opinion. Hannibal, in turn, asks for a visit from Will. But it doesn't come without strings attached.---"May I see how you’re healing, Will?”Will’s lip pulled back in a half snarl. “That’s a little personal, Doctor.” The half-retired nickname slid out unbidden with Will’s implied refusal. He had told himself before entering the room the first day that he should not use it. To do so would give Hannibal agency in his world once again.Hannibal nodded and said “of course,” then rose from his cot to sit at his desk, folding his hands before him. “Did your surgeon mention the nature of it?”“The nature of a stab wound is bloody and raw.” Poetic. “Pissed sitting down for about a month.” Then crass in a way Hannibal had come to deeply associate with Will.





	1. Jack Crawford's Regards

**Author's Note:**

> In order to commemorate my return from unannounced hiatus, I'm posting a fic that B and I wrote a long time ago. At the time I felt like it was unfinished, but when I reread it earlier today, I was like - nah...this is good.
> 
> This is something like an AU that takes place after Mizumono. Just imagine a world where Jack and Will arrested Hannibal during the planned Mizumono dinner. Abigail is still alive - they found her afterwards. Hannibal is at the BSHCI under Alana's care. Hannibal and Will are still thirsty for each other.
> 
> B and I were inspired by the scene where Hannibal eats Chilton's lip when it's delivered to him in prison. You'll see.
> 
> Hope you like it! It's both angsty and fun at the same time. Again. You'll see.
> 
> *EDIT*: I realize in my time away from ao3, I forgot how to post multi-chapter fics. Whoops! Please stay tuned for the second part of this fic.

With two college girls dead in Colorado every two weeks since the semester began, the governor had declared a state of emergency. Police officers were checking IDs at dorms. State troopers were giving van-loads of women rides home from football games. Seventeen counties, all with college towns in or nearby, had instituted 9-pm curfews. Boulder had already announced that mid-term exams would be available by correspondence, and that finals would be indefinitely delayed. 

 

Will had felt sick since he had seen the first news reports on the little television mounted above the bar in the pub he sometimes visited after work. Nobody there knew about his former life; he was just a local mechanic to them, with an odd but harmless affect. 

 

But he knew, and he knew when Molly’s car radio blared news of four more deaths that Jack would come looking for him sooner or later, and he felt as hunted and doomed as all those girls up in Colorado, each wondering the number of her days.

 

Molly judiciously avoided the subject. So did Will. They had spaghetti. They took Wally to soccer practice. They repaired the porch bannister. Everything they did felt to Will like waiting. 

 

Eventually the call came.

 

Then the visit. Jack had the decency to find him at work and leave Molly out of it. 

 

Will had first resisted when Jack showed him the pictures of the bodies. It became more difficult when Jack showed him the pictures of the girls -- high school yearbook portraits, photos of family vacations. One stood near the Grand Canyon shouldering a rust-colored backpack. One hoisted high a softball trophy. One looked like Abigail. 

 

“Fine, Jack, fine,” he had said, finally defeated. “Where’s base camp in Colorado?” 

 

“I don’t need you in Colorado,” Jack had returned, hesitant. Will’s gaze sharpened to a flinty point.

 

“Jack?”

 

“Graham, I need you in Baltimore.”

 

\--- 

 

It was late autumn and dark out at six-o-clock. The drive in from Virginia had taken longer than he recalled and Will hated it, hated every mile. 

 

Alana met him at the front entrance of BSHCI, where he leveled her with a baleful gaze as a security guard patted him down and traced the shape of his body with a metal detecting wand. 

 

“I told Jack  _ no,”  _ Alana said in apology.

 

“He didn’t listen,” Will returned. It was the first time they had spoken in roughly a year. “He sent you the case file?”

 

“A version of it. We -- we took out everything he could use, all identifying information he could --”

 

“Won’t matter,” Will said, and thrust out his open palm for the folder. Alana pursed her mouth but handed it over, then took up walking beside him as he flipped through the xeroxed pages.

 

“You don’t have to do this, Will,” she said. “I’ll tell Jack you went in, you tried, but he wouldn’t say anything.”

 

“He’ll just ask to see tape.”

 

“The cameras are off. One of Lecter’s demands.”

 

“His  _ demands! _ ” Will gave a sharp, sardonic laugh; Alana withdrew, startled. “He’s doing life behind three inches of bulletproof glass, and he’s still making demands. What a character.” 

 

“I don’t think you’re in any shape to see him, Will. I think you should --”

 

“--Save it. I already had to explain this whole fucked-up mess to Molly. I’m here, Alana, I’m doing it.” 

 

The head of security briefed Will as though he needed it -- don’t approach the partition; no pins, needles or metal objects in the drawer; no photographs, no food, no hard-bound books -- and Will allowed it only because he assumed that the middle-aged woman did not know their history. Alana left him shortly after that, promising to be nearby if needed; he wouldn’t need her, Will assured them both. 

 

Then he went into the quiet of the cell.

 

\---

 

Hannibal was asleep. Will thought momentarily of leaving him and coming back later, but he knew if he left he would only return with less resolve. So he stepped forward, already in violation of the security briefing he had been given, and thumped loudly on the thick barrier with his knuckles.

 

“Were you really asleep?” he questioned without really caring to know the answer. Will watched as the sleeping form of a beast unfurled and turned itself into a man. He had only ever seen Hannibal wake up once before, and even then he hadn’t been sure if the man had been sleeping in the first place.

 

Hannibal fixed him with an icy stare. A snarl faded into a scowl on his lips.

 

“Jack really was able to summon you here,” he remarked aloud, “so, he doesn’t know.” 

 

“No. He doesn’t. Can’t imagine why he turned to you first, except to say that maybe he’s learning.” Will stepped back, away from the barrier and turned a chair around to sit in, “But you asked for me; I don’t think it was for lack of ability to provide Jack with a profile. You don’t need me to develop your theory.”

 

Will was struck with the uneasy feeling that they were both harboring secrets and it was only a matter of time before one of them cracked first. He looked down at his hands in his lap and twisted the golden band on his finger.

 

“I’m surprised Jack didn’t come along with you,” Hannibal returned, lowering himself to sit at his small desk. “As a chaperone, if not a colleague.” 

 

“He sends his regards,” Will said flatly.

 

“When the Latin Christians sacked Constantinople during the fourth crusade, they put a prostitute upon the eastern Patriarch’s throne. Do you suppose that approximates Jack Crawford’s regards?” 

 

Will folded his hands over the scar on his stomach instinctively and picked up again with their conversation. When he laughed, he felt the movement. When he smiled, he felt his lips crack a little in the dry atmosphere. “There are easier ways to call someone a whore. Was that the biggest disappointment of your whole ordeal, Hannibal? That despite all your hopes for me, I turned out to be a whore? I wonder, sometimes, if you’re the kind of man to destroy the evidence of your failures...I wonder…” Will trailed off wistfully.

 

Hannibal’s face remained unchanged, impassive, blank. It was a terrible humiliation, what had transpired: Will had fucked him and then, figuratively,  _ fucked  _ him; they had gone to bed together only a few days before Will had handed him over to Jack in an appropriately dramatic fashion, with a dinner between the three of them ending in gunshots and a stab wound. 

 

“And how  _ is  _ sweet Abigail, speaking of our wreckage?” 

 

Will’s expression darkened as he considered the best way to prevent Hannibal from scrutinizing the subject of Abigail too deeply. “Back to where she started before you and I meddled. I haven’t seen her since your trial, and she doesn’t know where to find me. I imagine she’s doing better than she would have had we stayed within each other’s orbits. Much like you and I -- best to stay separate.”

 

“You’re the sort who loves and leaves, aren’t you, Will? If I were Molly or her dear little boy, I’d be wary of your loyalties.” 

 

For a moment, the idea that Hannibal had learned about his life with Molly and Walter upset Will. 

 

He had worked so hard to hide everything from anyone who might be looking, whether it was Freddie or Abigail, and obviously Hannibal himself. Of course, all along the way, marrying far away from Baltimore, registering all of their joint accounts under Molly’s name instead of Will’s, leaving Walter’s biological father as the boy’s emergency contact -- all along, Will had felt defeated, prone to make a mistake. Somewhere along the path he had.

 

He never let his unrest show in his face, however, because he did not feel it. The part of his mind that knew Hannibal so intimately knew that hiding was impossible.

 

“Maybe someday I’ll leave them. That’s true. But who knows when or by what means.”

 

_ Inevitability _ rang sharply in Will’s mind.

 

“You’ve come to discuss the news out of Colorado, haven’t you?” Hannibal offered a moment later, not bothering to mask his boredom. 

 

“Got the file right here,” Will said, flashing the folder. “No pictures.”

 

“Jack gave it to me a fortnight ago.”

 

“There’ve been two more.”

 

“I could have predicted that then.”

 

“Impressive, doctor.”

 

“You could’ve as well, Will. Or any trainee at the academy. Jack knew it himself. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent you here.”

 

“So you’ve figured it all out then. Should’ve known. What’s the game?”

 

“The game?”

 

“Yeah, Hannibal, what game are we playing here?” Will leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and peered at him with candid frankness. 

 

“I have something you want. Your objective is to get it from me. That isn’t a game, it’s a sale,” Hannibal corrected.

 

“I’ve got nothing to spend.” 

 

“Don’t you?”

 

“What do you make of the killer?”

 

Hannibal rose from his seat and began to pace.

 

“Your man sounds like quite a typical psychopath, Will,” he remarked, “I’m sure he matches all the usual clinical signs. Very commonplace, very ordinary...”

“Every one of them has been,” Will coughed uncomfortably, not accustomed to mentioning such things, “has been menstruating. How could he know?” 

 

“You’ve got an answer in mind. What is it?” 

 

“Maybe he has a hypersensitive sense of smell.” 

 

“Maybe.”

 

“You don’t really think he’s picking them out by scent,” Will observed.

 

“You don’t really think so, either, Will. If you had never known me, you wouldn’t be imagining my peculiar talents in such mundane cases.” 

 

It stung. He was right, and Will knew it. The awful truth of it all was that the night he had spent with Hannibal and the months leading up to it had been the most honest of his life; even now he caught glimpses of the man out of the corner of his eye, spoke to him in his dreams.

 

“I can’t see him clearly because I’m seeing you,” Will concluded. “This was a mistake. I’ve gotta get you out of my head, or I can’t…”

 

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it,” Hannibal informed him, not without glee. 

 

Fearing Hannibal was right, Will stood, turned, and left.


	2. A Wanting Space, Which the Devil Then Fills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will goes back to the BSHCI to visit with Hannibal, but this time he loses something. 
> 
> \---
> 
> “It’s not important, Alana — I just need it back...for obvious reasons.”
> 
> “That would be easier to do if I knew where it was, Will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the conclusion to "Belly". I hope you guys enjoyed reading! Your favorite murder husbands are always up to their silly antics. 
> 
> Thanks for the support. Each kudos and comment brought a smile to my face. Fannibals are the best <3

Will didn’t listen to the security guard debriefing him on the way out. His body followed each instruction while his mind filtered out the sound. Even though he knew it was standard procedure, Hannibal’s ever-present voice in the back of his mind supplied --  _ Alana knows you, and she distrusts you due to that knowledge _ . Will’s own inner voice answered back --  _ it’s probably for the best _ .

 

He avoided Alana’s office on his way out and only texted her a brief “10AM tomorrow” when he was in the safety of his car.

 

\---

 

In the silence of his cell Hannibal retreated to his desk, wounded. Will would come back, Hannibal thought, but only of his own accord. Hannibal had no more certainty of his influence over Will. He had been  _ so  _ close to touching Will again — any small thing, even something as miniscule as a brief handshake, would have been worth the trouble — and yet the nerves of his fingertips only recalled the smooth dull feel of glass and prison-issue plaster.

 

He had drawn Will, not immediately after his incarceration, but eventually and increasingly. Nothing violent; that would only lose him his supplies. Instead he drew still life images from memory: Will in his study bathed in late afternoon sunlight, Will standing in the snow scarfless with his dogs, Will resting on the couch in Abigail’s hospital room.

 

Over time he had let himself imagine that each stroke of his charcoal pencil was a brush of his fingers over Will’s skin. So he had drawn Will gently, especially the first time he had draw him nude — small, soft strokes, luxuriating in the easy slope of Will’s hipbone, slowing to build the arch of his back with a graceful curve. 

 

Hannibal traced the shape of Will’s cheek in the sketch, smudging the charcoal a little and frowning.

 

\---

 

At ten the next morning Will appeared in the same chair, in the same clothes. Hannibal deduced that he hadn’t intended to stay the night. 

 

“Good morning, Will,” he greeted. There were empty plates with flatware crossed attentively on top stacked in the drawer and waiting to be withdrawn by staff. 

 

“Guess I missed breakfast,” Will observed. 

 

“Or what passes for it, here.” 

 

“That bad?” 

 

“Everything is relative.” 

 

“Does Alana talk to you?” Will wondered how important conversation might be to Hannibal. As a psychiatrist, he had conversed with patients day in and day out, now he would probably be lucky to speak at length with his own court-mandated psychiatrist once a week if that. Then again, Hannibal was charming. No doubt, despite the inherent danger he presented by virtue of being Hannibal Lecter, the man had certainly convinced an orderly or two to take kindly to him.

 

On the other hand, Will wondered if Hannibal ever really cared for conversation much in the first place. 

 

Hannibal was a psychiatrist by trade, but more as a student of the human condition -- informing himself of the various types of men and women that drifted through the world and the differing levels of frequency at which each type occurred. This was not the kind of man who needed to talk.

 

“Not if she can avoid it,” Hannibal replied. “One hears she was rather put out about the business with Jack. May I see how you’re healing, Will?”

 

Will’s lip pulled back in a half snarl. “That’s a little personal, Doctor.” The half-retired nickname slid out unbidden with Will’s implied refusal. He had told himself before entering the room the first day that he should not use it. To do so would give Hannibal agency in his world once again.

 

Hannibal nodded and said “of course,” then rose from his cot to sit at his desk, folding his hands before him. “Did your surgeon mention the nature of it?” 

 

“The nature of a stab wound is bloody and raw.” Poetic. “Pissed sitting down for about a month.” Then crass in a way Hannibal had come to deeply associate with Will.

 

“It was a surgical incision,” Hannibal said softly, “you should have been in shock before you ever felt any pain. The aftermath, of course...is regrettable.” 

 

“What exactly did you regret about it?” Will thrust his chin out defiantly, “What didn’t you regret? If you’re in the mood to be transparent, be transparent.”

 

“Won’t you meet my transparency measure for measure?” Hannibal ventured again, “Let me see how you’re healing.” 

 

“That’s a whole different kind of transparency. The kind you have to earn.” Will uncrossed and re-crossed his legs where he sat. “Ask me something I can answer verbally and I’ll give you the most transparent response I can think of. Then you answer my question.”

 

Hannibal tilted his head as though puzzled. 

 

“The last time I had the privilege of a look at your naked belly there was substantially less hardship involved. Well then, Will, I regret that it was painful for you. And I regret that Ms. Lounds found her way into the hospital while you were in recovery, all those personal photographs…” he gave an expression of genuine disgust. “If I were so disposed, I would serve her to you  _ sous vide. _ ”

 

“But you’re not, and I’d rather you didn’t.”

 

“No,” Hannibal agreed, “I’m not.” 

 

Silence stretched between them. Will looked at his watch.

 

Hannibal stood and began to pace. “Will, I realize I’ve never asked if your father brought you up with religion.” Behind him what had once been a fireplace was now bricked in and plastered over, gaping like a milky white blind eye. 

 

Will scoffed. “You gotta be kidding me.”

 

“I am not.” 

 

“I’ve already told you.” Will locked eyes with Hannibal in defiance. “My father didn’t bring me up with much of anything, let alone religion.” 

 

“That’s right,” Hannibal agreed, “You did say he was distant.” Of course Will had never used the word. Hannibal wondered if he would notice. 

 

If he did, he gave no indication of it. Hannibal spoke again.

 

“Since the Second Vatican Council in the mid-sixties, Roman Catholic exorcists have been required to submit any potentially possessed person to the examination of a licensed psychiatrist to exclude the possibility of a medical diagnosis. I was fortunate enough to be asked to consult on such a case when I was living in Paris. I asked the priest who approached me what predisposes a person to demonic possession, what the risk factors are, so to speak.” 

 

“Did you?” Will muttered, feigning boredom. 

 

“ _ Le Révérend Père _ said that each case he had seen had one thing in common: A missing thing inside the patient, a vacuum left behind by some lack or another...A ‘wanting space,’ which the devil then fills. I have been tempted to think of ordinary psychopaths, demonic possession aside, in the same way. The key to their dysfunction is usually nothing more than understanding the shape of that wanting space. Of course,” he added a beat later, “the same can perhaps be said for most of us.” 

 

“What happened with your case?” Will probed, “Must have been something more mundane than demonic possession.”

 

Hannibal gave a nod, delighted with Will’s casual interest. 

 

“I referred the patient to a hospital for a few tests. She had been having terrible visions; of course, vision was the answer. She had a tumor the size of an apricot nestled against her optic nerve. No wanting space after all. Though, I imagine the surgery left something of a gap.” 

 

“Did she get better?”

 

“She changed,” Hannibal said.

 

The lights flickered, reminding Will of where he was. “Because of the surgery, or…”

 

_...or because of you? _

 

“Who can say? When there’s a hole left in someone, something comes along to fill it. Sometimes bad, sometimes good. How’s that hole in you, Will?”

 

“Probably about the same as the one in you...” 

 

Will thought back to the night of their fateful dinner -- the night he had helped Jack cage the beast. Once Hannibal had pulled Will close to stab him in the gut, Jack had known it would be his best opportunity to catch Hannibal too. It was a split-second decision, and Jack took a shot he knew would not kill either of its two victims. Nowadays, with one bullet wound in each shoulder -- the most recent one more gruesome than the first and both inflicted by Jack Crawford -- and a cockeyed grin carved in his lower abdomen, there wasn’t much unscarred real estate left on Will’s torso.

 

“May I see?”

 

Will stood up from his chair and made his way to the transparent drawer where Hannibal’s breakfast dishes laid. He withdrew them from the sliding compartment and placed them on the ground on his side of the glass.

 

“You understand,” Will stood up again and recentered himself in the middle of the room. He perfunctorily unbuttoned his shirt without removing his coat and parted the sides with a short yank for slack. The tails remained tucked, but just barely and his skin gleamed white under the fluorescent glow. “All the spaces wrought inside of me have been filled. You’re familiar with the one, but the others followed suit just the same.”

 

Hannibal came to the clear partition, but the glare of the lights obscured the iridescent scar. He placed his fingertips on the glass and knelt down, coming to eye-level with Will’s navel.

 

“You healed well,” he said, softly, so his breath wouldn’t fog. “May I?” 

 

Hannibal’s fingers hovered near one of the holes in the partition, a fingertip sliding to extend just beyond its edge. The holes were meant for air, Will assumed, but were big enough to admit a few fingers at a time, or one’s arm a little past the wrist, with some effort. 

 

As a man more acquainted with making mistakes than avoiding them, Will slowly approached Hannibal’s fingers at the opening. He watched with hooded eyes as they pressed against the unmarked skin above his navel first before brushing softly over the length of the scar.

 

“Remarkable,” he breathed. “You are exquisite, Will. I haven’t changed my mind about that. When we were together, I was....” He laid his cheek against the glass, as though leaning into Will’s middle for a maternal kind of caress. “...very glad.” 

 

Will was mesmerized by Hannibal’s apparent serenity. It made him barely conscious of the interest his cock was suddenly taking in Hannibal’s attention.

 

Hannibal looked up through his lashes, finding Will’s half-hooded gaze.

 

“Once more for me, Will?” 

 

“Huh?” Will replied numbly.

 

“Let me see your pleasure,” Hannibal clarified, his fingertips stroking at Will’s belly as low as he could reach, “just once more.” 

 

Will blinked in short, staccato flutters of his lids. He felt unwilling to shake himself out of this strange waking dream he found himself in. It didn’t make sense for Hannibal to want such a thing. Will had led him to this prison cell. He brought him to a place he could not thrive in the way that he wished. Maybe it was the prelude to some private humiliation Hannibal had planned for Will.

 

He didn’t know, so “Why?” was all he could think to ask.

 

“I didn’t let myself believe I was being deceived when we made love,” Hannibal admitted, “I didn’t focus on remembering. The images are hazy, and they are — all that I have. Please, Will.” 

 

The memories were getting hazy for Will too.

 

It would be a lie for Will to say that he had not thought of that night behind the closed door of his and Molly’s shared bathroom.

 

It would be a lie for Will to say it hadn’t given birth to innumerable fantasies which seemed to spawn fantasies of their own.

 

_ It would be a lie to say it had been a lie. _

 

That Will hadn’t succumbed to his own passion for Hannibal in the darkened bedroom of the doctor’s old Baltimore manor — that was a lie.

 

His hand, which had been ready to begin buttoning his shirt back up only moments ago, lingered at the fastening of his belt. This one did not have a metal tip like some other belts he owned, so it slid smoothly without a sound.

 

Will squeezed himself once through the material of his slacks and briefs before opening and unzipping his fly. He raised his right fist to his mouth and bit at the meat of it beneath his thumb as he drew his cock out with his ringed left hand.

 

Hannibal watched with unveiled interest, giving a throaty, soft moan when Will fisted his cock tight enough to squeeze a drop of dew from the rosy tip. 

 

“Let me,” Hannibal panted, and Will, apparently deciding all of the meaningful boundaries had already been trampled, carefully fit himself through the gap to rest the blunt head of his cock against the flat of Hannibal’s tongue. Hannibal’s lips closed around Will’s tip while another sound, almost desperate, welled up inside of him and broke over Will’s sex.

 

Will’s hands immediately smacked against the thick barrier separating them. 

 

The naked skin of his lower abdomen pushed against the cold material as he did his best to position himself in a manner that didn’t press the delicate skin of his member against the sharp edges of the hole. And Hannibal mindful as ever, rose up on his knees to slide his tongue underneath Will’s cock, taking as much as he could into his mouth. 

 

It was dangerous, Will knew, even as his eyes fluttered shut; those teeth could...and yet…

 

Hannibal pinched the tab of his jumpsuit zipper between his thumb and forefinger and pulled down, parting the metal teeth as low as he could, kneeling like this before Will, with all that canvas fabric corrugated and itching. He wondered if Will could see as he smoothed his hand over the soft spread of his silvery chest hair, down toward his own cock, stiff in prison-issue briefs. 

 

Will’s cheek pressed against the glass and his nails drew blood from the palm of his hand as he tried not to thrust, to  _ fuck  _ into Hannibal’s lips —

 

When he did open his eyes again, he saw Hannibal’s elbow bent at his side. 

 

“Show me,” Will rasped out and pushed himself away from the glass as Hannibal released the temporary agent’s full erection from the soft ‘o’ of his lips. Will reached down to milk his cock, backing away from the clear partition to make sure he wouldn’t leave any explicitly damning evidence. It also afforded him a better view of Hannibal stroking his own erection on the other side.

 

The more damaged part of his mind sent a throbbing heat to the pit of his stomach, just behind the scar Hannibal had marked him with, and told him that his one-time-lover’s dick was larger than he remembered. He groaned in agreement and brought the fingers of his right hand to his mouth.

 

“Come for me, Will,” Hannibal rasped. Will seemed close himself, and the memory of how it felt when Hannibal had finished inside him — deep, so deep — pushed Will over the edge. He came, catching his release in cupped fingers. 

 

“Let — let me, Will — let me,” Hannibal murmured, his cock still in hand; he rose up, palm white on the glass between them, inviting Will to thread his fingers back through the gap and let Hannibal lick away his seed. 

 

And Will did. 

 

As Hannibal took Will’s fingers into his mouth, Will looked down — not a sight he was accustomed to seeing with any lover, let alone Hannibal Lecter. He generally derived little joy from watching. With Molly, he did not watch because he did not want to see. With Hannibal, he was more used to being the one on his knees.

 

It was hard not to feel affection for him, Will thought, or something like it. Hannibal’s tongue worked diligently at his fingers meanwhile, sliding underneath each digit and across the webbing between, lapping hungrily. When Hannibal pulled away, at last, he came with white gushes of seed running over his knuckles as he panted hotly into the still air. 

 

Will was so entranced by the sight of him that it momentarily escaped his notice that he was without his wedding ring.

 

He looked dazedly at his own hand and wiggled the fingers individually before he saw the white stripe of untanned skin where the golden band should have been. His body moved more quickly than his mind as he seized Hannibal’s chin with the fingers of one hand and wrenched his jaw open as best he could.

 

“Fucking — give it back, you! Fucking — FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!” Will frantically searched the inner cavern of Hannibal’s mouth, jabbing unkindly past his uvula and pulling the tongue from side to side as if there might have been a great number of places Hannibal could have hidden the ring inside his mouth. All the while Hannibal moaned, delighted by the rough treatment and Will’s frantic behavior.

 

“FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU! JESUS!” 

 

Will pushed Hannibal away as roughly as he could through the small hole. His hands shook with an icy mixture of rage and humiliation as he quickly redressed himself and imagined some panic-addled plan for retrieving his ring from Hannibal’s insides — or dead body, whichever Alana was more amenable to.

 

\---

 

“Will —  _ how?”  _

 

“It’s not important, Alana — I just need it back...for obvious reasons.”

 

“That would be easier to do if I knew where it was, Will.”

 

He shifted in place.

 

Alana stared.

 

“Will?”

 

“Yeah?” A jerky shove of his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

 

“Where is it?”

  
  



End file.
